


Composition

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 09:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10357554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Elrond comes across his attendant in the throes of passion.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wirrwarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wirrwarr/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for glowinthedarkfindel’s “Elrond walking on Lindir touching himself” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a part of his mortal blood, he thinks, that forces him to stop and cover a small yawn behind his hand—Erestor seemed bright-eyed as always throughout the entire meeting, and Elrond’s not sure he’s _ever_ seen Glorfindel at rest. There was a time, long ago, when he marched to battle and stood always on alert. But his years and heritage seem to have caught up with him, and now he wishes he’d insisted they wait until the morning.

When the bout of tiredness has passed enough to move again, Elrond resumes his steady pace. Imladris is a quiet realm at night, and he passes no one in the halls and few out in the gardens. The stars are already full, the moon high and round. It gives enough light to see by but too little to keep his eyes fully open. He wonders vaguely if there’s any way to sleep in tomorrow morning without sending Lindir into a fit of worry.

He turns the corner of the library, sporting a plethora of bookshelves and decorative columns, and means to pass right through. But then he hears a hitch of breath, and his steps falter. 

He turns his head in the direction of the sound, and there it is again—this time higher, rasped: a pinched, breathless cry. Half with concern and half curiosity, Elrond makes his way around the nearest shelf, into a corner of the room tucked beneath the second-story balcony. Even with that cover, it’s hardly a private space, but there’s nothing public to the scene he stumbles on.

Mounted, near forgotten, on the far wall is a tall portrait of Elrond, commission, long ago, by Lord Gil-galad, though Elrond looks little different in it for his youth. He’s seated on a settee in the painting, dressed in his golden armour, fixed somewhere between the state of soldier and ward. Elrond hasn’t looked at the thing in years.

But beneath the painting, perched directly on the tiled floor, is his attendant, eyeing it in rapture.

There’s no other way to describe the look on Lindir’s face. He’s sitting on his legs, folded and spread, his hands between them, his supple frame arched forward and his neck bent high to look. His lavender robes are peeled back from his body, his crimson cape in a pool around him. Elrond can see, through the pale moonlight that streaks in over the shelves, the long line of Lindir’s throat and chest, dipping down over his stomach, along the inside of his creamy thighs. His soft skin nearly gleams, slicked, here and there, with a thin sheen of sweat, and his dark hair is matted for it, streaming down his back with the freshly-mussed look of bed—either he’s come here from a fitful night, or he’s been here for _hours_.

He stares at the painting as though he knows every piece of it in precise intimacy, yet he seems to have an unwillingness to look away. His lashes flutter against his cheek when a ragged moan tears from his pink lips, only to part again and return with reverence. He looks at Elrond’s portrait the way he’s often looked at Elrond, only far more intense.

And Elrond, though he’s long been fond of his dutiful attendant, never realized before how much _longing_ was in that gaze. Lindir bites his plush lip and hunches his shoulders, whining sharply and bucking his thin hips forward before straining taut again, and Elrond spies a flushed, bulbous tip between Lindir’s busy fingers. Lindir is _touching himself._ The reality hits Elrond swiftly and dizzyingly. For a split second, he’s overrun in warring shock, guilt, and _lust_.

He should leave. Lindir’s hardly chosen a private area, but he deserves privacy nonetheless. It isn’t for Elrond to see, even if...

But it doesn’t have to be him, he tells himself. Lindir could simply be thinking of the past. Another warrior, perhaps, in Alliance armour. It could be any number of things. Then Lindir grits his teeth together, winces suddenly and whispers, “Sorry, I am sorry...” before letting out another wild cry and groaning hoarsely, “ _Lord Elrond_...”

It could, perhaps, be the mortal blood again, full of the needs of Men, but Elrond breaks in that moment. He sweeps forward as silently as he came, and Lindir, so lost in his own efforts, doesn’t seem to notice. 

Elrond comes to stand right behind his attendant and sinks to the ground. He sidles up behind Lindir’s smaller body, and Lindir’s breath hitches again, but he’s given no time to turn—Elrond’s arms are already wrapping around him. One of Elrond’s hands closes around Lindir’s slender wrist, holding that hand still on Lindir’s shaft, while the other presses against Lindir’s chest. He spreads his fingers, feeling the softness, the slight sweat, the _warmth_ , and the quick beating of Lindir’s heart, and gently pushes him back. Lindir is eased against Elrond’s body, breath quickened tenfold. 

Elrond thinks of something to say to excuse himself. But there’s nothing, and he simply guides Lindir’s wrist back down the long shaft, offering a little squeeze at the base, and drawing back up again. Lindir stiffens, tense and taut and probably frozen with the same surprise that Elrond felt, but Elrond guides him to stroke himself nonetheless—he is, as Elrond’s often thought, quite beautiful, especially in the low light of the stars. He smells of sheer sensuality, rich and poignant, and seems to burn in Elrond’s hands. Elrond longs to feel more, to _taste_ Lindir’s body, but knows he’s already done more than he should without permission. As he waits for Lindir’s final reaction, he finally asks, “Why did you not tell me of this?”

Lindir’s lips part. Elrond hooks his chin over Lindir’s slender shoulder, eyeing the sweet curve of his mouth, but Lindir seems to be purposely averting his eyes. He glances again to the painting, then licks his lips and whispers, “I... I am ashamed, my lord. I am so sorry.”

“Ashamed?” Elrond pushes. There could be many reasons for it, but he thinks he knows the one.

Sure enough, Lindir mumbles, still caught and breathless, “To... to yearn for such a great lord, I...”

“I am honoured,” Elrond promises. A great weight seems to spill from Lindir’s body; he drops, suddenly, back into Elrond’s arms, loose and limp again, and his eyes close in respite, a relieved breath rushing out. If anything, Elrond’s relieved with Lindir’s wording—that it isn’t just lust, although even that is flattering; Elrond is far beyond the years of someone Lindir should wish for. On the next upward stroke of Lindir’s hard cock, Elrond slips his hand beneath Lindir’s, taking hold of it himself, and Lindir lets out a broken moan and arches back around him, shaft thrusting forward. Elrond holds steady, enjoying every last sensation. Lindir’s cock pulses hotly in his hand. 

In another struggle for air, Lindir whimpers, “My lord, please, I... I will dirty your hand... I cannot... _oh_...”

Elrond wants that, he thinks. But he stills himself anyway, fingers clasping tight around Lindir’s base—Lindir keens uselessly and pinches his perfect face. Somewhere along the line, Elrond’s grown just as stiff—it isn’t difficult, with someone so lovely in his arms, bare in all the right places and pining for him. He gently nudges his hips forward, digging through his own robes and the fabric pulled across Lindir’s rear. Lindir makes a mewling noise, and Elrond asks, “Can you feel how hard I am?”

Lindir is trembling. He licks his lips and tells the painting, “I would not presume to think it was for me...”

With a little tsk, Elrond sighs, “Do you know of a more attractive, more loyal, more wholly tempting attendant?”

Lindir nervously wets his lips. Elrond holds him tight. Then Lindir finally glances aside, eyes catching Elrond’s at last, _burning into him_ , and murmurs, “I hope you know, my lord, that I will always attend to every one of your needs that I am permitted to.”

Elrond gives Lindir another pump to signify that it’s _Lindir’s_ needs which he currently finds most pressing. Lindir cries and squirms in his grip, utterly overrun. It makes Elrond wonder how he could have ever missed this. But then, perhaps, in the light of day, with a clearer mind, he wouldn’t be so obliging—he would likely remind himself how young Lindir is, how talented, how free. He deserves someone of that caliber.

He only seems to _want_ Elrond. Elrond’s never seen him show interest in any other elf, painted or otherwise. Perhaps if he had, this would have been forced to light sooner.

In the peace of night, Elrond decides, “This would be better met in my quarters.” He relinquishes his hold on Lindir, both chest and cock, with some regret. As he draws away, Lindir gives a great shudder.

A silent minute passes, and then Lindir shifts around, turning to face Elrond properly, exposed from chin to knee, and Elrond swallows in the glorious view. Lindir seems to search for something to say, then settles on an awed, “You are as handsome now as you were then, my lord. And I... I have always loved you so.”

Elrond could perhaps say the same. He’s known Lindir for a relatively short time in his life, but Lindir’s grown closer to him than any other, and it’s easy now to reach a hand into his hair. Elrond strokes gently through it, then takes hold of Lindir’s chin and draws it forward. He gives Lindir a light but lasting kiss, then draws away to insists, “My quarters.” Lindir nods and smiles like the Valar themselves have blessed him.

He draws his robes around himself, and Elrond rises, offering a hand. Lindir’s slips into his, and together, they go forward.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Composition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701368) by [KeeperofSeeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperofSeeds/pseuds/KeeperofSeeds)




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